A Letter to Dead Roses
Dear Dead Roses,
I saw you in the trash today,
wilted next to baby’s breath,
which was already stale in the air.
I wondered who you belonged to,
and if they loved how beautiful
you were in your prime,
before death struck.
I wondered if they mourned for you
when you began to darken,
your vibrant shades of red
turning into a purple, a red-hued black.
I mourned for you
when I saw you there,
drooping and dry.
You looked tired, devoid of peace
but unwilling to fight any longer.
You looked the way I felt,
and I mourned for you.
Rest in peace.
Sincerely.
It began as prose. I turned it into a poem. It seemed more fitting.
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